Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  He stayed on the deck a long time. Nobody joined him. People knew his place in the scheme of things: he was here when it happened. He saw Don McCarthy shoot himself in the head.

  Frank Briar showed up. He checked out the bathroom, but he didn’t hang around. He saw Devereaux through the glass and came outside to join him.

  ‘You prick. You killed him.’

  ‘If only.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Devereaux didn’t answer. Briar came close. Devereaux smelled alcohol: maybe a swig of something before he left home, to take the hard edge off the news.

  Briar said, ‘People know you didn’t like him. People know you were scared of him. You’ll go down for this. You are going to fucking burn.’

  Devereaux didn’t move. Briar was bigger than him: one nudge would send him backwards onto concrete. Devereaux said, ‘I know what you did to Leroy Turner. I know what that pig Blake did to Howard Ford. I only hope you have the decency to do what McCarthy did, before I have to do it myself.’

  Last straw: Briar grabbed him by the throat and shoved him hard, screaming something wild, arching him back over the rail, his torso hanging in fresh air. He clung to the rail, eyes clenched, until the slider opened and the officers from inside pulled Briar away from him.

  He went outside and found a patrol car and shut himself in the back. That sudden lovely quiet. He called custody at Auckland Central Police and asked for Hale.

  ‘This isn’t reception at the fucking Hilton.’

  ‘Put John Hale on.’

  He waited out a spell of complaining.

  Hale came on the line. He said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘McCarthy’s dead.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  ‘No, he shot himself in the head.’

  ‘So it’s over.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s done.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Devereaux walked him through the morning. When he’d finished talking Hale said, ‘I’m going to get a dog.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want one. I met one called Gerry the other day.’

  ‘Who does he belong to?’

  ‘Hopefully, nobody yet. I’m going to go and get him from the SPCA.’

  ‘You haven’t had a dog in ages.’

  ‘I know. I had an epiphany in jail. I need a dog.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘When you visit we can walk it.’

  Devereaux watched cops and ambulance men exit McCarthy’s front door. A latex symphony as gloves were torn free. He saw an empty stretcher carried out. He could smell his own blood on the hand holding the phone. He said, ‘All right, good. We’ll do that.’

  The call came through that afternoon: gold Nissan Maxima found abandoned south of Auckland, two men KIA in the back. Devereaux had taken the afternoon off, but Comms dialled him direct. He decided to check it out. He wasn’t dire: a doctor had diagnosed mild concussion. He’d been given painkillers and a dental referral. A drive wouldn’t be fatal.

  The car had been left on the verge of a small country road, not far off the main highway. It had probably been sitting there since January thirtieth. Passing traffic was meagre: two weeks before someone twigged the Nissan was more than just your standard breakdown.

  Devereaux got down there just before two. He was calm. McCarthy’s death hadn’t rattled him. It was relief more than shock. He’d made it to the end credits, and he couldn’t help but feel good about it.

  Highway cops had taped off the street. A couple of patrol cars and an unmarked were queued up behind the cordon edge. Pine trees lined one side of the road: Devereaux parked in close to try to catch some shade. He got out and badged his way past the uniforms at the tape. Facial bruising drew some stares. He went and checked out the car.

  It was missing both back windows. The rear windscreen had been blown out. Buckshot damage pockmarked the roof. Two bodies occupied the back seat. They’d been shotgunned, head and chest. The nearest passenger was missing the left half of its skull. The right half was still intact, edged roughly by torn flesh. The entire rear of the cabin had been spattered bloody. The whole thing rancid and heaving with flies.

  He put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. He walked a wide loop of the car. No glass underfoot, no bloodstains extant. He checked the front of the car. The plates had been switched: the bumper tags didn’t match the registration sticker in the windscreen. Devereaux called Comms on his cell and requested a vehicle check: the bumper plates came back to one Avis Crocker, of Greenlane, Auckland. The registration sticker came back to a Glyn Giles. He recalled Don McCarthy’s questioning of Shane Stanton on Tuesday night: Someone said the name Glyn Giles. That’s all I heard, I swear. Giles.

  Devereaux thanked the operator and ended the call. He ducked under the tape and walked back up the road. Frank Briar was seated in the driver’s seat of the unmarked, cell to his ear. Devereaux waited for the call to wrap up, then headed over. Briar buzzed his window down. His temper seemed to have downgraded since that morning: he looked pissed off rather than livid.

  ‘Don’t light that thing while you’re standing on a crime scene.’

  Devereaux leaned on the roof. ‘He pulled over ten minutes north up the road and shot them.’

  ‘That’s very precise.’

  ‘He didn’t kill them here. And he wouldn’t have wanted to drive very far with the car in that state. Ten minutes, maximum.’

  Briar said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘You look a bit off. Do you miss Don?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘They uncovered a hundred and sixty-five grand in stolen cash from his home this morning.’

  ‘Great. What has that got to do with anything?’

  Devereaux thrummed his fingers on the roof. ‘All told, there should be over two hundred. Either he spent some, or someone else has the rest.’

  ‘Good maths. Why the fuck are you telling me?’

  ‘You look mighty confused.’

  Briar didn’t answer.

  Devereaux said, ‘McCarthy found the money in the house after the January thirtieth shooting. More than two hundred grand, and he stole it. Except that that’s a lot of money to move off a crime scene unnoticed, unless you pay someone to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘You sound like you’re about to accuse me of something.’

  Devereaux stepped away from the car. Briar looked like he might be about to climb out, but he stayed seated.

  Devereaux said, ‘Someone else knew about the theft, and McCarthy paid them to keep quiet. I know you were on scene after the January thirtieth shootings, and I know you showed up not long after Don did.’

  Briar didn’t answer.

  Devereaux said, ‘Most of it was stolen drug money. It belonged to this guy Leonard I asked you about the other day. Apparently, he wants it back so if you’ve got it hidden somewhere, you might want to at least find out what he looks like.’

  Briar said, ‘Take your bullshit elsewhere.’ The window went up.

  Devereaux stepped in close. He said, ‘McCarthy paid someone off. Whoever it was, I’m going to find them, and take them down so hard they won’t feel themselves hit the ground.’

  The glass made him shout. He drew some bemused looks from over by the tape. Devereaux walked away. He lit the cigarette and got back into his car, then drove back to the highway.

  FORTY-TWO

  THURSDAY, 23 FEBRUARY, 10.59 A.M.

  She had hints of old injuries: scarring around the mouth, around the brow where she’d been struck. Her nose hadn’t been set straight.

  Hale stayed in the hallway as she opened the door. He kept his licence up and open. ‘Charlotte Rowe?’

  She nodded. He knew she was twenty-three, but she could have passed for younger. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s John Hale. I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘I see that.’

  She hadn’t been joking, but he smi
led. ‘You mind if I come inside a moment?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you about your father.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s fine.’ A white lie: Rowe was recovering well.

  She moved away and didn’t reply. Disappointed maybe. He entered and closed the door behind him. The address was a two-room studio apartment on Albert Street. The building itself was just a bland matrix of tiny units, like a wall of post office boxes — pigeonhole accommodation. The living room had space for a table and two chairs and little else. The window overlooked a left-right flurry of traffic. Across the street an alleyway stretched away, grey and derelict, walls scaled by paste-on bills like a pelt of wet feathers.

  ‘I’d offer you tea, but I’m fresh out.’ Polite. The antithesis of Rowe senior.

  ‘It’s fine. I won’t stay long.’

  There were open textbooks and papers covering the table. She swept them together deftly in a neat stack and dropped them on the floor.

  ‘Don’t shift anything on my account.’

  She shrugged, but didn’t reply.

  He said, ‘What are you studying?’

  She pretended she hadn’t heard. It was a pointless question anyway. He knew the answer, just like he knew everything else: he knew her mother had been dead twenty years, he knew she’d been in here three months, he knew her meagre bank balance was bolstered by regular payments courtesy of Rowe senior.

  Most importantly: he knew what had happened.

  He watched her eyes and spoke carefully, so there’d be no misunderstanding. That heavy little sentence: ‘I know what happened.’

  She leaned against the window and folded her arms, the table between them. ‘Sorry?’

  He read it as faked confusion: maybe some residual denial.

  ‘I know your father’s bodyguard hurt you.’

  The ruse withdrew. She looked at him calmly. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I’m not trying to offend you.’

  She shook her head, smiled slightly. She was tall and lean. Nothing like Rowe senior. ‘No, I’m sorry. I know you’re not.’

  ‘Your father hired me to investigate a series of robberies. A girl about your age was injured during a theft earlier this year. He told me it was you.’

  ‘God, what? No, it definitely wasn’t me.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. He pretended I’d been hurt in a robbery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She said, ‘What happened to the girl who was hurt?’

  ‘She was hit in the skull with a hammer. She’s severely brain-damaged.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Earlier this year.’

  ‘Oh, God. Was this that thing back in January?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Hale gave a rundown of the fight club robbery. He gave what he hoped was a tamer version of events. He wasn’t sure how much she’d read or already knew.

  ‘Will she be okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think she’ll need a lot of help.’

  She leaned against the window. Her reflection stood back to back. ‘And my father saw her as a great opportunity.’

  Hale didn’t answer. She looked embarrassed, waved the comment off. ‘Sorry. That’s a horrible thing to say.’

  ‘Well, I think he did see her as an opportunity.’

  She said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry he wasted your time.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. You had nothing to do with it.’

  She kept her eyes on the street. ‘I haven’t spoken to him in three months.’

  ‘It’s probably a good thing.’

  She didn’t answer. He kicked himself for being so offhand. He said, ‘There was reward money. He wanted it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Six figures’ worth.’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing if not greedy.’

  Hale waited for more. She asked him how he’d discovered what happened to her, and Hale told her. He omitted violent particulars: no mention of what he’d done to Beck, no mention of Mr Rowe’s flustered footpath confession.

  She listened quietly to his distilled recountal, then said, ‘He’s a disgrace, I hate him.’ She turned from the window. ‘I’m sorry he wasted your time.’

  I hate him. It seemed considered. It seemed like the product of protracted musing. There was vehemence in it.

  ‘Don’t apologise. I’m glad he hired me.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Hale said, ‘You never told anyone.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were assaulted, but the police have no record of it.’

  She shrugged. ‘He gives me money. I need him for the money. I need him to pay for this place. There’s like an implicit agreement. I keep my mouth shut, my father coughs up for the rent.’

  He reached forward and placed an envelope on the table. ‘Don’t open it now.’

  She frowned, untrusting. She reached forward quickly and grabbed it off the table, removed the cheque from inside. A thumb in the fold made it yaw gently.

  ‘Holy shit. Nine hundred thousand dollars. Are you kidding? Shit. Is this a joke?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s good. I promise.’

  ‘I can’t accept this. God. I’ve only just met you.’

  She was shaking. She pulled a chair back and sat down at the table.

  Hale said, ‘It’s not my money.’

  She looked up. ‘What, you stole it?’

  ‘No. I did a job and got paid on commission. But it’s too much. I don’t want it.’

  ‘What sort of job pays this kind of commission?’ She waved the cheque for emphasis. He glimpsed his signature. Point nine of a million, bequeathed with a Bic and a flourish.

  ‘I recovered ninety million dollars.’

  ‘And took one per cent?’

  He nodded.

  She said, ‘Not many people would have second thoughts about that sort of arrangement.’

  ‘I think you need it much more than I do.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to be grateful or offended.’

  ‘I don’t really give a shit. Please just take it.’

  She looked shocked; he raised a placating hand. ‘I’m kidding. But please just take it.’

  She held the cheque in two hands, folded it open and then closed. She smiled slightly. ‘You look like the sort of guy who’d say: “Hale, John Hale.”’

  He laughed. ‘I save that for the evening appointments.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Just say thanks and put it in your pocket.’

  ‘Wow. This is unbelievable. I didn’t think people did this in real life.’

  He said, ‘I don’t make a habit of it. But I like the idea of good fortune trumping misfortune. It’s a better feeling than having nine hundred thousand dollars sitting in the bank.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘For now at least.’

  She slipped the cheque back in the envelope. ‘I’m studying biology. I’m in my final year.’

  ‘Do a PhD. You can afford it.’

  He saw tears welling. ‘God. I don’t know what to say. I’m just … Thank you very, very much. I can’t believe this.’

  He left her in a daze at the table.

  FORTY-THREE

  THURSDAY, 23 FEBRUARY, 11.41 A.M.

  He didn’t think he’d be so nervous: sweats and a thumping heart. Who knew going back would be so hard.

  Devereaux stood on the porch and knocked on the door, knuckles versus cracked paint. A dreadful quiet before it opened. Derren stood there in its absence, blank-eyed and unsurprised. Two decades of non-contact, and the visit still seemed expected. He smiled and said, ‘Thank God you finally grew.’

  The first words he’d heard from him in more than twenty years.

  Devereaux shrugged. ‘A couple more inches wouldn’t have gone amiss.’
<
br />   He thought of all the dark evenings spent drafting what he’d one day get to say. That long-rehearsed indictment, squandered. First words only come once.

  Derren turned, tilted his head towards the house behind him. ‘You want a cup of tea?’

  Devereaux nodded. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  They went in. He took a glance back outside as he crossed the threshold. He remembered himself as a ten-year-old, sitting in an unmarked at that very kerb. The back seat with O’Dwyer. The shy, dry crackle as he unwrapped his gum. Everything he’d told him and everything he hadn’t.

  The kitchen had been modernised: lino for timber, stainless steel for granite. Derren flicked on the jug. Twenty years hadn’t served him too badly. He’d gained wrinkles and a paunch, but bench press time had kept him big through the shoulders. A body well cast for its role: military man, verging on retirement.

  An awkward period of floor-gazing as they waited for the tea. Their last shared experience long ago and best forgotten.

  They had the tea on the back deck. A veranda cast a wide band of shade. Side by side on plastic chairs, a wobbling metal table between them.

  Derren took a cautious sip, made a cautious comment. ‘I heard you became a policeman.’

  ‘I did. I still am.’

  ‘I thought about it a while, but then it didn’t really take much thinking. Seemed like a natural choice. Person like you.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer. He sampled the tea: too milky, too sweet.

  Derren said, ‘So what’s on your mind?’

  Devereaux set his mug on the table. He popped his cuff buttons and slid his sleeves to his elbows. He lit a cigarette. ‘What do you mean?’

  Derren said, ‘First visit in twenty years; I thought you’d either tell me something or ask me something.’

  Devereaux watched fumes unravel. He made a shape with his mouth, a sort of facial shrug. ‘I always thought I’d have some things to say if I saw you again. Now I’m here, I don’t.’

  Derren nodded. He watched the rear fence. It had been reinstated in fresh timber. Devereaux remembered kicking a ball against its predecessor. He remembered dislodging a board and paying for it in fevered lashes. The bench press and shed were still present, all these years later, grass still tufted at their feet. Derren said, ‘Always made me sad you never called or anything. I would have liked a visit.’